There’s a sign on my front doorthat was first drawn in red,but now, it’s covered with licks of white paintan odd attempt to blot out the words,but they will always be there,although, to date,they’re smothered in a sort ofpasty oatmeal.

The words read:I Do Not Want to Talk to You—underneaththere’s a picture of a sweet kittenwith round eyes andfangs that go all the way to his feet,a stubby tailand ears folded onto his headlike twin triangles.He murmurs at night,as I pass the closed doorinside the house,and he keeps the snowfrom blowing in.

Once, I opened the doorand stood outside on the steps,my bare feet searing printsinto the whiteness,my breath streaming into the night.When the hidden kitten on my doormuttered in Gaelic,the snow hurtled upwards,flying and skirling in a tunnel of flakes,sticking to the moon.